How Ruth Got Her Shoes Back
by samchandler1986
Summary: Debbie gets Ruth her shoes back.


" _What_ are you doing?" Debbie finds herself asking, as Ruth hopscotches across the damp parking lot.

"Avoiding the puddles."

"Why?"

"Sorry," she replies, automatically, "I didn't mean to be annoying—"

"I don't…" _Care_ , she almost says, but catches herself in time. "I know that. But why are you doing it?"

"Oh. Um, my shoe has a hole."

"So, buy new ones." Sometimes she wonders if Ruth has been hit very hard on the head and failed to mention it. Maybe around the time she first decided fucking Mark was an a-plus idea. For someone so undeniably intelligent, she can be incredibly stupid.

"I did," Ruth continues, quietly, as they enter the gym.

Debbie sighs. But it's always been her job to force these cracks open in the conversation, even before they became Best Enemies. "Explain. In less than three sentences."

"Melrose borrowed my shoes."

"She borrowed your _new_ shoes?"

"Yes."

"Not the old shoes, which you are now wearing?"

Ruth cringes, ashamed. It freights less catharsis than it used to. "Yes," she says, in a small voice.

Debbie opens and closes her mouth a few times, as various responses suggest themselves. "I… don't even know what to say to that."

"I know I should just ask," Ruth practically wails, "but it's been weeks now, and it just feels so awkward to… have to."

Debbie rubs her forehead. "They're _your_ shoes."

"Yes, but…" Ruth physically _writhes_ with discomfort, unable to articulate the problem. Debbie shakes her head and picks up the medicine ball; she'd rather squat than have to deal further with this peculiar piece of spinelessness.

But there's a feeling she can't shake, an itch under the skin, that it's somehow her fault.

* * *

The office door at the top of the stairs slams open and Sam appears on the balcony. "Ruth," he barks. "Up here."

Ruth puts down the weights she is working with and trots off diligently. On the mats, Melrose makes a quiet noise of contempt, but only just. She catches Debbie's eye. "What do you think _that's_ about?"

"I have no idea." Privately, she's happy not to care. Sam's talented enough as a director, but she has enough to deal with as things are, without adding his raft of personal problems.

"You think she's fucking him now?"

"What?" she snaps, sharper than she intended. "No… No. Aren't he… and Rhonda? Anyway?"

"Nah, they broke up." Melrose shakes her head. "Who gives a fuck though, right?"

"Right," she says, unconvincingly. She carries on stretching, trying to put the words in her mouth out of mind. It's not her job to look out for Ruth anymore, she doesn't owe her _anything_. But caring about her seems to be a hard habit to break. "Um," she hears herself saying, "do you still have… Ruth's shoes?"

"Yeah. I've been wondering how long it will take for her to work up the nerve to ask for them back. Five weeks and counting."

"…Right."

A beat. "You think I should give them back?"

"Well… yeah. I don't think she's going to ask."

Melrose shrugs. "That's kind of my point though. I mean, first it was kind of funny just messing with her. When I thought she was just a bad person. Now… I dunno. She needs to toughen up. Assert herself more."

"And the shoes are what, your teaching aid in this life lesson?"

"Pretty much." Melrose shrugs. "You know her best. If it's not working..."

A part of her still wants to contest this, put some protective distance between the two of them. But she knows how hollow the words will sound. Maybe it's time to stop fighting the inevitable. "I don't think it's working," she says, faintly.

"Fair enough."

* * *

"I'd be careful," says Sheila, as she crosses to her car. "I saw Melrose doing something to your trunk when you were meeting with Sam."

"Something? Like what?"

"I don't know. She was messing with it though."

"Oh, great," Ruth says to herself. The rain is starting up again as she dithers on the parking lot. There's nothing for it, she's just going to have to open it a deal with whatever's in there. It can't be worse than ketchup or roadkill, surely?

She pops the trunk, leaning back to hopefully put herself out of splatter range. Nothing pops or explodes as she gingerly lifts the lid…

Inside is a perfect pair of white sneakers and a post-it note. She picks up the note carefully. In a looping hand someone, presumably Melrose, has written: _Sometimes you just have to ask_.

She crushes the note in her hand and smiles. "I did," she says to no-one.


End file.
